


Objectively Attractive

by x_los



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M, Politics, Season/Series 01, Trigger Warning: the spectre of objectivism (is haunting space)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 12:59:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5005723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/pseuds/x_los
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conversation about Avon's politics relieves Blake of his worst suspicions (but not, alas, his trousers).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Objectively Attractive

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by Aralias, who described it, not entirely flatteringly, as 'the single most 'you' fic I have ever read.'
> 
> I wrote this very early on and have only bothered posting it now. It is too smug, and too desperately redemptive, but I can't fix that.

The two of them were alone on the flight deck when the distress signal came through. Plague on Cigna Majora. The outbreak was small at present, but it might spread rapidly if not contained. Avon was less than enthusiastic about Blake’s plan to mount a mission of mercy. Blake was less than enthusiastic about Avon’s lack of enthusiasm. Blake delivered a round denunciation in which he essentially told Avon to wank himself dry into a copy of _Atlas Shrugged_. He accompanied his injunction with a truly venomous look.

Avon, for his part, had only caught a little of that, and responded with wary confusion.

"Wait. Blake--who is John Galt?"

Blake looked ready to hit him. "Are you _trying_ to be amusing?"

"If I were, you’d be laughing," Avon said, eyes narrowing. A particularly nasty suspicion had crystallized in his mind. "You seem to be laboring under the delusion that I am--" Avon's lip curled a little, "an _objectivist_."

Blake winced at the word. He would have been gentler--'libertarian' came to mind (and left, very quickly, feeling unwelcome--it was, after all, Blake's mind). " _Aren't_ you? Very early in our acquaintance, after we escaped Cally’s Lost Ones, I said all all life was connected. And _you_ said you couldn't agree with me _less._ "

Avon crossed his arms over his chest. This insult would not stand. "Blake, I'm a systems analyst. I work with complex computer _systems._ I'm hardly going to say there's no such thing as society, when my entire career has been predicated on understanding that _everything_ is externalities. Every half-decent designer understands that nothing is ever really 'closed'--and I am rather better than half-decent. Besides, our society is so interdependent and technologically advanced that rugged individualism is rather a pathetic fantasy." If Avon, as a civilized man, hadn’t liked his chances on a Federation prison planet, he liked them even less on a hellhole like Dagny 7. They couldn’t even get communal electrical grids and sewage systems up and running.

"Well then _why_ are you fighting me on this?” Blake pressed. “Cigna Majora needs our help. Without our medical resources they could be looking at a planet-wide biological catastrophe."

"Pragmatic concerns. The distress call looks to me very much like it could be a trap, designed to ensnare someone with your well-known sensibilities. It’s a Federation planet, and the Federation have their own medical resources. Besides, your faith in the _Liberator_ notwithstanding, I do not know either that we _could_ help, or that we possess appropriate methods of containment to protect ourselves if we attempt to intervene. Given that the disease seems entirely new, it’s difficult to determine whether we could safely render assistance. I'm good at what I do, and thus I see externalities. I couldn’t help thinking about the possible consequences of your altruism if I wanted to.” Avon tilted his head and smiled wryly. “And I do not."

"No," Blake said ruefully, "nor would I want you to ignore them, really." Avon was as useful to him as an analyst as he was as a technician.

"If you mean more generally--” Avon shrugged. “I have never disputed your claims that the Federation is immoral and inefficient. Only a fool would do so. Nor do I dispute that political arrangements which allow for greater real freedom of choice are theoretically more optimal.”

“What do you mean by ‘freedom of choice’?” Blake asked carefully, visibly relaxing when Avon offhandedly said ‘oh, a lack of repressive restraint and the provision of meaningful opportunity’ rather than anything about being a ‘sovereign citizen’.

“Free agency is, after all, a prerequisite for synchronicity,” Avon continued (Blake thought he should have _guessed_ Avon would think of the world in terms of technology. Bless.). “I also know that systems tend to entropy. Though, like everyone, I need people in a wide variety of ways,” he said it with a particularly sour expression that made Blake’s lip quirk with fond amusement, “I also recognize their limitations and my own, and sensibly resent this need. Who wouldn’t?”

“At least at times,” Blake admitted. Certainly he resented Dev Tarrant, who had betrayed his Freedom Party, and for a dark moment he’d resented the prisoners for whose safety he’d turned over the London for their vulnerability, for the sheer fact that they stood between him and what he wanted, _needed_ to do for the common good. Rationally he’d known it wasn’t their fault, and it had only been a bitter flicker, a shadow dancing across his mind. But he was human, and conflicting motivations and sentiments came standard with the model.

”Perhaps most vitally, I doubt our ability to meaningfully change the political situation,” Avon said quietly. Not sneering it at Blake--simply stating his concern. Like this Blake almost felt he could voice his own worries along these lines, and the conviction that had ultimately overcome them--namely that they had no other moral or practical option but to actively resit. “Therefore,” Avon continued, “I question the wisdom of our personal involvement in situations like that of the Decimas."

"So you're a frustrated socialist?" Blake mused.

Avon rolled his eyes. "I'm a realist, Blake."

"Same thing."

"You _would_ think so."

"Yes, I would, wouldn't I?" Blake smiled at him, rather unguardedly, which provoked a slightly conspiratorial grin from Avon.

"Besides, I had to read _Anthem_ in junior school to graduate, like every other Alpha in my district--" (here Blake gagged a little, cursing the Federation Education system for perhaps the 1008th time) "and I was not impressed." Avon regarded Blake with suspicion. "Why do you know more about _reactionary_ politics than I do? I highly doubt _you_ read it and that your heart yearned to know more."

"Not exactly. The prose alone--” Both men shuddered. Blake then heaved a sigh. “Back on Earth, some people came to the Rebellion for--reasons I wasn’t in agreement with." They had also explained these reasons at length, after the fashion of their sacred texts. The Federation was only interested in preventing its Alphas from falling to champagne socialism—it actively discouraged more total dedication to the pseudo-philosophy, and its more gung-ho adherents had, rather fittingly, to look outside the state for support.

" _Really?_ And then they looked you in the eye and dared _say_ as much?"

Blake rubbed his chin ruefully. "It has happened."

Avon shook his head. "So much for their avowed rational self-interest. Try and respect _my_ intelligence more highly in future."

Blake smirked at him. “I’ll endeavor. I think we should look into the situation on Cigna Majora more thoroughly before we come to any decision.”

“Right,” Avon said with a nod. It seemed a sensible compromise.

Blake did Avon the courtesy of not mentioning that, when he'd thought Avon might be rather inclined to the virtue of selfishness, he had also thought Avon was crap at it. Avon had committed a few too many acts of heroic self-sacrifice to reason away. Blake also did himself the courtesy of not crowing that he'd _known_ he couldn't be attracted to an objectivist.

 


End file.
